


Becoming

by sparxwrites



Series: peace beneath the city [9]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Agender Character, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Badass, Clothing, Coming of Age, Competency, Dragons, Fae & Fairies, Fluff, M/M, Other, Seduction, Urban Magic Yogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 10:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3131072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Nervous?" Kirin smiles, palms bracketing Will’s shoulders as his protegee stands in front of the mirror, putting the final touches to his appearance before the winter solstice celebrations. Nuzzling Will’s hair, Kirin presses a kiss to the top of his head, trying to contain the pride at the sight of his proxy, his consort, looking so smart and self-assured.</p><p>There’ll be time enough for pride and praise later, after the celebrations, and Will’s first true test against the sidhe court. Kirin has no doubt he’s going to do marvellously.</p><p>(In which Kirin dresses Will up and introduces him to the Sidhe Court - properly, this time.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Becoming

**Author's Note:**

> [bumblebeeflower](http://bumblebeeflower.tumblr.com) was having a bad day and wanted sweet umyverse kirinwill and will being a competent, kickass sorcerer, and so i did a thing. as usual, it spiralled wildly out of control. hope you like it, friend!!
> 
> go check out [the gorgeous art](http://sparxwrites.tumblr.com/post/106331153793/sassytail-me-and-sparx-have-had-a-lot-of) that [sassytail](http://sassytail.tumblr.com) did to go with this!

"Nervous?" Kirin smiles, palms bracketing Will’s shoulders as his protegee stands in front of the mirror, putting the final touches to his appearance before the winter solstice celebrations. Nuzzling Will’s hair, Kirin presses a kiss to the top of his head, trying to contain the pride at the sight of his proxy, his consort, looking so smart and self-assured.

There’ll be time enough for pride and praise later, after the celebrations, and Will’s first true test against the sidhe court. Kirin has no doubt he’s going to do _marvellously._

Will smooths hands down the front of his black waistcoat, fiddling with the rolled-up sleeves of his crimson dress shirt. It's hardly Christmas-y – hardly solstice-y, for that matter – but he's got nothing in the spirit of the season that can even remotely compete with the finery the fae are sure to show up in, so silk tie, dress shirt, and smart trousers it is. "Absolutely not," he says, coughing a little as the lie sticks in his throat.

He tilts his head up almost automatically when Kirin reaches for his tie, subtly adjusting it. "I wouldn't blame you if you were," murmurs Kirin, fingers sliding from Will's tie to brush over his pulse point – hearts never lie, and Will's is racing like a rabbit. "But you'll do fine. Fantastically, even."

Sucking in a small breath at the skin to skin contact, Will's eyes flutter closed for a second. Tilting his head to the side and up to steal a kiss from Kirin's lips, he pulls a smile on. "I'm not nervous."

"You're a poor enough liar that you could be a fae," says Kirin, laughing at the indignant noise Will makes. All seven of his eyes crease at the corners with amusement, his glamour fully dropped in preparation of the celebration – tail curled around one ankle beneath deep blue ceremonial robes lined with white fur, antlers scraping the ceiling, and strange, inky, blue-black markings curling their way across what little of his skin is visible like slices of the night sky.

Grumbling absently under his breath, Will rubs at the back of his neck and bites back a sigh. “I’m _not nervous_ ,” he insists, despite the way his stomach’s twisting and there’s bands of iron around his chest, the anticipation and anxiety a heady mix so strong he can almost taste it in his mouth.

Kirin’s been preparing him for this specific event for months, been preparing him for interacting with the fae as his proxy and consort for even longer. He’s going to be fine, he tells himself, drawing in a deep breath through his nose and smoothing his hands down the front of his waistcoat one last time. He’s going to be fine.

“Oh!” Kirin catches Will’s wrist as he moves to turn away from the mirror, holding him there. “No, no, I have something for you. Just a few finishing touches.” He grins, all sharp teeth and a flash of dark tongue. “Close your eyes now, no peeking.”

Will does so, with minimum grumbling and a fair amount of apprehension. He trusts Kirin, doesn’t think Kirin’s going to _do_ anything to him – especially not with something as important as the winter solstice celebrations less than an hour away – but he’s still reluctant to do away with any of his senses for any length of time.

After nearly a year of using security cameras and phones and laptops as eyes, along with the animals of the city, being without sight for any length of time is highly disconcerting. He manages not to jump when a clawed, callused hand catches his chin, holding his face steady, but only just.

“Easy,” soothes Kirin, the voice coming from somewhere in front of Will. Before he can try and turn his head to better locate it, there’s something soft and pliant against his skin, carefully tracing the curve of his upper eyelid close to his eyelashes. “Hold still.” Kirin hums quietly as he works, a soothingly simple pattern of up-and-down melody.

It’s only when the brush streaks a tapering line against his skin out from the corner of his eye, before lifting and beginning to carefully line the lower lid in the same way as the upper, that Will realises what’s going on. He tries to keep still, but it’s hard with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Kirin,” says Will, somewhere between amused and exasperated. “Are you putting _eyeliner_ on me?”

The only response he gets is a low rumble of laughter from somewhere in Kirin’s chest, and a faint shushing noise. A moment later, the brush moves onto the next eye to repeat the careful lines across his eyelids, and Will holds still and bears it without comment.

When Kirin finally draws the brush away, Will expects to be allowed to open his eyes – but Kirin preempts that, holds a hand over his face close enough that Will can feel the warmth of his skin and the magic beneath it, but not close enough to risk smudging the newly-applied eyeliner. “Uh, uh,” he says, reprimandingly. “No peeking. Not yet.”

There’s a rustle of fabric from behind him, and it takes all of Will’s self-control to nod instead of opening his eyes. “No peeking,” he agrees, before twitching again in surprise when something settles heavy and warm around his shoulders.

Unlike the eyeliner, he can’t work out what it is – a coat, a scarf, a shawl? It seems too heavy to be the latter two, but Kirin’s making no attempt to put his arms through any sort of arm holes which rules out the first, and Will makes a confused noise as Kirin fiddles with something close to his throat before stepping back.

“Perfect.” There’s something warm and proud and almost reverent in Kirin’s voice, and it makes Will’s stomach twist in a way that’s altogether different to the anxiety that’s currently got it in knots, a little spark running down his spine.

A moment of extra weight, the heavy warmth of Kirin’s hands stroking over his shoulders, and then it’s gone, replaced with Kirin’s breath unexpectedly close to his ear. “Nearly done,” he murmurs, tracing fingers down the front of Will’s throat. “One last thing…”

There’s no mistaking what it is that Kirin fastens around his neck, the soft touch of it too tight and broad to be a necklace, and Will shudders. “Really?” he asks, but there’s no exasperation in his voice. There’s something between apprehension and excitement instead, and he swallows hard, feeling heat rising in his cheeks that has nothing to do with embarrassment.

“Open your eyes,” whispers Kirin, and Will can practically _hear_ the smile in his voice.

When he blinks, the image in the mirror makes him gasp.

His eyes look huge and bright, rimmed in black eyeliner that tapers to finely pointed wings at the corner. The green of them is almost unnatural, like he’s pulled neon to burn behind his irises, acid-green and intimidating against the darkness.

But that pales in comparison to the cloak draped over his shoulders. It’s heavy velvet, the same midnight blue as the twisting night-sky markings that wind their way across Kirin’s arms, and fastened at his throat with an iron pin – cold iron, and Will notes the way Kirin’s sucking his fingers ruefully in his reflection, no doubt burnt by it – in the shape of an _othala_ rune. When Will reaches behind his head to flip the hood up, it’s lined with the same white fur as Kirin’s robes.

“Look at you,” murmurs Kirin, tugging the hood down so he can kiss up the side of Will’s neck and over the shell of his ear, sharp teeth just barely grazing the lobe of it. “My beautiful, beautiful sorcerer.”

Will sucks in a sharp breath, leans into the touch with heavy-lidded eyes. One hand reaches up to catch on the curve of one of Kirin’s horns, holding him close, and the other reaches up to trace the soft band of suede wrapped around his throat. It’s silky on the inside, half-hidden by the collar of his shirt, and the texture of it beneath his fingertips makes him shiver with pleasure. “A collar?” he asks, mouth a little dry. “You’re sure?”

“You’re mine,” rumbles Kirin, quietly, still nuzzling against the side of his head and pressing small kisses against his hair. “ _Mine_.”

“Alright,” says Will, mutters, “ _possessive_ ,” under his breath and scratches absently at the base of Kirin’s horn as Kirin laughs. Pulling his fingers away from the collar, he lets them dip down below his shirt to find the tiny point of coolness against his skin. His fingers catch on something rounded, spiked, and he pulls it out of the confines of his shirt with a small frown.

Attached to the collar by a silver loop is some kind of glassy stone, a deep blue-black shot through with silvery speckles of varying sizes, some large enough to be distinct sparkles and some small enough to be nothing more than a shimmering river across the stone’s surface. It’s cut in the stylised shape of a cog or gear – there’s a hole in the middle, squared-off teeth around the edges of the circle – and the beauty of it makes Will’s breath catch in his throat.

For a long moment, he just stares at it, tries to remember what stone it is – he should know this, having heard enough about semi-precious stones from Honeydew over the last year and a half. “Blue goldstone,” he says, suddenly, as the name for it comes back to him. It’s a man-made stone, he remembers that much, and it takes him a few seconds to recall the rest of the information he’s stored about its properties.

“For people dealing with hypersensitivites.” He brushes his fingers along the teeth of the cog, pressing the pad of his thumb against them thoughtfully. “Learning, communication, wisdom, courage. It’s a healing stone, for new beginnings and balance.”

“It seemed… appropriate,” says Kirin, and there’s something almost _hesitant_ in his voice, which makes Will blink. Kirin is rarely nervous about anything. “Do you- do you like it?”

Will presses his thumb harder against the teeth of the cog one last time, exhaling slowly, before tucking it back under the collar of his shirt. It sits cold against the hollow of his throat, warming slowly from the heat of his skin. “It’s beautiful,” he says, the words strangling in his throat a little as warmth blooms in his stomach.

“ _You’re_ beautiful,” Kirin corrects him, grinning, and presses his lips to the point where the suede of the collar meets Will’s skin.

Through the distraction, Will manages to tug a little heat from the radiator to weave into the lining of the cloak, steal a little neon from the sign on the shop opposite to light his eyes a touch further and curl around his wrists in comforting bracelets. “We’re going to be late,” he says, tone chiding but also faintly wistful.

He wishes they _could_ be late, but, all things considered, he’d rather make a good impression.

“You’re right, of course,” says Kirin, sadly, biting down a little on Will’s earlobe and grinning at the sharp hiss of breath it draws from the human. “Sadly, duty calls.” He sighs heavily, nuzzles against the side of Will’s neck, and he smells of the same lemon-honey tea that Will fell in love with over a year ago.

“I’m sure you can keep yourself in check for the first half of the ceremony,” says Will briskly, fussing with the drape of the cloak and smoothing fingers over the softness of it simply for something to do. It helps to keep his composure, too, something that’s remarkably hard to do with Kirin mouthing at the side of his throat. “We can always disappear for a little after that if… needs must.”

Kirin perks up all of a sudden, pulls away and spins Will around with one hand on his arm to grin at him. “Is that a promise?” he asks, and Will’s torn between laughing and rolling his eyes at how much the Lord of the Sidhe Court, the most powerful fae in all the city, looks like an excited puppy.

“That’s, ah, yes, that’s a promise,” says Will, clearing his throat to choke down his laughter, and taking the arm Kirin offers him with a hand pushed through the parting of his cloak.  
“I’ll hold you to that,” says Kirin, and Will snorts. There's a joke in there somewhere to be made, but he can't be bothered to tease it out as Kirin opens the door to the shop and guides then them through it.

The wind hits Will like a wall, despite the stolen warmth woven into his cloak. He shivers, clutches at more from the car a street over and the streetlamps, and Kirin grins as they flicker in response to the sudden, brief loss of power. “Really?” he asks, raising one eyebrow as Will curls the heat around his neck like a scarf, sparing a dab for his nose.

“It’s very cold,” says Will, defensively, waiting patiently for Kirin to lock the shop as he shifts from foot to foot. “Besides, I’m only borrowing. Hardly worthy of that scandalised expression.” He catches Kirin’s arm again when he’s finished, stepping forward into the snow and sighing in quiet satisfaction at the crunch of it beneath his leather boots.

Kirin just laughs, flips Will’s hood up for him so his dark-rimmed eyes glow out from the darkness beneath its fur-lined curve. He leans down to nuzzle gently against the soft velvet of the cape, grinning when Will grumbles something about _public appearance_ and _decorum_ and pushes at his head.

The sky’s dark above them already – it _is_ the solstice, after all – and the stars are a faint glitter through the clouds, but the streets are alive with light. Candles flicker in every window, enchanted witch-lights hang in porches, and fires burn deep in the heart of every home with a yule log at their centre. Even the street lamps, yellow and flickering, add to the light, and every neon sign in every shop window is lit despite the fact that everywhere is closed for the holiday.

Everyone _knows_ the sun will come back in the morning, nowadays, but superstition and tradition are strong things. The lights will stay on through the solstice night.

A group of children run past screaming, balls of witch-light trapped in large marbles clutched in the fists of those too young to be trusted with fire, and candles wreathed with garlands of specially-picked herbs and flowers carried by their older siblings at a more stately pace. Some of them are singing, snatches of good-luck spells woven in with Christmas carols and love songs and whatever’s currently at the top of the charts, teens nudging shoulders and giggling as they keep an eye on their group of rambunctious children.

Will smiles at the lot of them, unable to help it with the goodwill permeating the air from every home. The city magic is warm tonight despite the chill in the air and the flurries of snow that have been falling on-off all day – people are happy, feasting, gathering with family and friends, and it’s like a yule fire deep inside his own chest.

It’s a small matter to flick his fingers as they pass a small contingent of the children that have stopped to build a snowman that’s impressively close to their own height. He steals blue neon from a nearby sign with half a thought, picks a little of the clouds and smoke from the air, and wraps a glowing blue scarf around its neck.

The children jump back, gasp, looking around wildly for the source of the sudden improvement. “Sidhe!” they call delightedly, when they spot Kirin with his antlers and his robes, jumping up and down in their snow boots and waving mittened hands in the air. “Sidhe, hey! Hello Lord fae!”

One of the braver ones dashes over to touch Kirin’s robes, running away so fast she almost trips over her own feet when Kirin bares sharp teeth at her in a smile just a touch scarier than strictly necessary. Will elbows him for it, lightly, the action barely noticeable with his cape to hide it, and steals red from a nearby traffic light to colour Kirin’s nose.

Laughing so hard they clutch at each other in an attempt to stay upright, the children don’t quiet until their siblings run over to hush them with frantic, anxious words, dusting snow off their coats and chiding them for their silliness. Unlike the younger ones, the teens know enough to keep their distance from Kirin, even on the night of the winter solstice. Tonight is a night of peace and celebration – but fae memories are long and sharp, and tomorrow night will make any mortal fair game once more.

“Lord Kirin,” murmurs one of the more well-informed as Kirin passes, dipping their head, and Kirin dips his in response. Will catches a murmur of _sorcerer,_ a hush of gossip from behind a hand, and tries not to grin at the recognition as he snatches the coloured light away from Kirin’s nose and sends it back to where it came from.

They leave the children behind to their snowmen and festivities, cutting down an alleyway where the snow is little more than dirty piles of slush. It’s a shortcut they’d never normally take, veering through Garbage Court territory as it does, but tonight is the solstice. They’re as safe as they’ll ever be.

Will feels the flicker of boundary magic as they pass into the territory, the bend and give of it, and for a second he feels the weight of the Garbage Court’s attention on the intruders. Then it gives, a flash of glittering blue stone and leather and a sleazy grin hovering in the magic of it as it dissipates, and Will smiles. “Well met!” he calls tilting his head up into the slowly-falling snow, and thinks he maybe sees the flash of a stone tail disappearing behind a chimney high above.

It might just be smoke, though, or falling snow, or a ghost image from one of the hundreds of CCTV cameras he’s currently plugged into.

They walk the rest of the way in silence, leaving only footprints in the snow, Kirin’s arm wrapped casually around Will’s waist.  When they finally stop, it’s in front of the entrance to the Sidhe Court – a set of huge doors leading into what looks like a towering, modern office block. Will knows from experience, though, that either the doors are a portal or the office block is an illusion. He’s never been able to figure out which, uninclined to try and pick apart the heavy fae magic laid thick across the entire area.

“Ready?” asks Kirin, thumb brushing back and forth against the velvet of the cape and the slight curve of Will’s waist beneath it.  
“As I’ll ever be,” murmurs Will, drawing in a deep breath to ground himself, before catching Kirin’s wrist when he reaches for the door. “No! Wait.”

Kirin looks at him, bemused but patient, and Will flushes a little. “You gave me gifts,” he says, clearing his throat a little. “Let me give you one.”

Without waiting for a response, he tugs himself from Kirin’s grip, holding his hands out palms-down to the snow on the ground and closing his eyes. Magic comes easily to him, nowadays, trickling down his spine and dripping through to his fingers, but the snow resists him nonetheless. It’s hardly part of the city, after all – but the tiny particles of pollution in it are.

He fights it, calls to the part of it that _does_ owe its allegiance to him and the city, and it answers. Slowly, reluctantly, the snow lets him manipulate and shape it, press and compact it into icy, glittering globes. It’s hard work, but more in terms of concentration than energy expenditure, and by the time he’s finished he’s not used anywhere near enough magic for it to be a noticeable drain.

“There,” Will says, grinning, a line of ice droplets glittering like diamonds along a fine metallic thread stolen from old cabling, where it won’t be missed. “Perfect.” The faint look of surprise on Kirin’s face makes his shoulders hunch, but he doesn’t drop eye contact. “You gave me the cloak and- and the collar. Let me give you this.”

Rather than answer, Kirin dips his head, bending down and allowing access to his horns for Will to drape the shimmering string over. “It’s beautiful,” he says quietly, once Will is done, reaching up a hand to brush one of the icy droplets hanging just in the corner of his vision. “Thank you.”

Will smiles, rises on tiptoes to kiss the corner of Kirin’s mouth, and sighs when Kirin catches his chin and presses their lips together, slow and molten. “Don’t start that now,” he says, quietly, pulling away and giving Kirin a disapproving look. “You’re going to distract yourself.”

The pouting look of sadness Kirin gives him is enough to make him laugh, and he shakes his head as he takes a deep breath, stepping forward to pull open the door to the Sidhe Court. “After you, my Lord,” he says, quietly, bowing and ignoring the racing of his heart.

He waits for Kirin to pass through the entrance, smiling, before taking another deep breath. After a second’s hesitation, he reaches out for a block around, grabbing at all the neon he can find and clutching it close before throwing it up above his head in a blazing  aurora borealis. The colours ripple in sheets, blazing and beautiful, and Will lets the warmth of the neon comfort him as he follows Kirin and feels the door close behind him.

The Court is rather different from when Will was here last, during the last summer solstice. There are still the skyscrapers on all sides, fencing the Court in and stretching glass and steel towards the sky, and the familiar plants still creep up the sides of them in a curious meeting of forest and city – but the cracked paving slabs of its floor are now dusted in snow, and a delicate roof of ice hangs far above their head, adorned with icicles. Candles are spread around to light the long solstice night, rather than the fireflies of summer, and the flickering of their light casts unfamiliar shadows that catch in the corners of Will’s eyes.

In the middle of the court, the throne still rests on its dais, albeit now leafless and blossomless in the depths of winter. That, at least, is comforting in its familiarity.

The fae already in the court become aware of their presence slowly, a spreading whisper rippling out from those closest to the entrance as they notice first the lights that Will has spread out to cover the entire roof, and then Kirin. A hush falls – not quite quiet, but a show of respect – and the fae between them and the dais part slowly to make a path.

Kirin wraps an arm around Will’s waist, and the whispers start rippling again, only growing louder when Will flips his hood down to reveal the dark eyeliner, the half-hidden collar tight around his throat. It’s distracting, but Kirin’s hand pressed against his waist is enough to soothe him, and he holds his head high as they take their first step forward. After the first, it’s easier to take another, and another, and the tension pulling at Will’s spine eases somewhat as he relaxes into the movement and power.

They’re halfway to the throne when their progress is blocked by an irritatingly familiar figure, short and blonde and dripping blood and stagnant water onto the floor below them.

“Lying,” says Kirin, with a sigh, stopping in front of them and barely blinking when Will immediately throws up a shield between themselves and Lying. “ _Do_ move out the way. You’re supposed to behave yourself at Court, remember?”

Lying ignores Kirin entirely, and focus on Will instead. “Well met, little sorcerer!” they laugh, grinning delightedly, licking over pointed teeth. “Or perhaps not so little any more.” They eye the barrier Will’s thrown up, crackling energy half-obscuring both him and Kirin with blue electric, as if wondering whether they can break it. “You’ve come a long way from the lost little angel that nearly drowned in my well.”

Kirin sighs, a look somewhere between disappointment and irritation on their face as they eye the disruptive well-witch. His and Lying’s relationship has always been somewhat unusual and unstable, Will knows, but Lying generally avoids public challenges. It’s not their style, and the fact they’re being so openly confrontational right now can only be a challenge – specifically, a challenge for Will.

He hardly has time to ponder on that, though, because a second later there’s an impact against his shield. The water makes the electricity crackle, short out, and the shield dies in Will’s hands as a fireball hurtles towards them.

Will’s reaction is instinctive, drilled into him by countless lessons with both his uncle and Kirin on magical fights, and his eyes blaze brilliant blue as he sinks down into his magic and drags it around himself in handfuls.

 _Defend_. He snatches polluted snow from the ground, snuffs the fireball out with a flurry of off-white frost. _Distract_. There’s cars on the street outside and he borrows their horns, sees the sudden blare of noise make Lying jump, make them drop their focus. _Counter-attack_. It’s little effort to summon more electricity, siphon a little of Kirin’s power off to add lightning to the mains, and hurl it in Lying’s direction. _Immobilize._ The multitude of cables that run even beneath the Sidhe Court are only too eager to respond to his call, snaking up to the surface and effortlessly breaching through the gaps in the stone slabs to curl around Lying’s ankles.

Lying deflects the electric lightning an instant before it singes their hair and laughs wildly, delighted. “Well met indeed!” they cry, another fireball forming in their hands even as they speak.

Their laughter dies on the lips as the cables begin climbing, anchoring their feet to the ground and pinning their arm against their torso. Will’s jaw is clenched tight, fire burning in his eyes as Lying attempts to muster resistance – he tears it down with crackles of static and the blare of headlights, distracting and confusing them as he rips out their attempts at a defence with the weight and might of the city’s claws.

It’s over in seconds.

When he finally releases the huge tide of magic he’d summoned, Lying is trussed from head to foot in cables, electricity sparking across their lower face whenever they try to open their mouth in an effective gag. There’s fury in their eyes to match the heat in Will’s, but also amusement, too, a grudging sort of respect that borders on pride.

“You would do well to mind your tongue,” says Will, coldly, into the stunned silence that follows. Every eye in the Sidhe Court is on him, he knows. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but he keeps his back straight, his expression hard and haughty, and somehow manages not to jump when Kirin rests a hand in the small of his back to guide him forwards.

The confrontation hasn’t dimmed or destroyed Will’s light show below the ceiling, and he feeds a little more neon into it to dispel the dregs of his magic left over from the binding. It flares brighter and more colourful over his and Kirin’s head as he walks, a testament to his power.

They take the rest of the walk up to the throne in silence, the surrounding fae too busy processing what they’ve just seen and too worried about being seen as dissenting to talk.

It’s only as Kirin settles down into the curved throne made by a carefully grown and sculpted cherry blossom tree in the centre of the court, roots burying deep into the cracked stone dais and leafless branches reaching high towards the icy ceiling, that talk resumes. It starts as a soft murmur of surprise and gossip, and quickly rises in volume until the mingling of fae voices echoes loudly in the enclosed space.

Will takes a deep breath and reaches up to touch the softness of his collar, a little self-consciously. The feel of it beneath his fingers is grounding enough, calming enough, that he remembers to reach out and release the cabling binding Lying. After a second’s thought, he unpicks the silencing curse, too, catching the backlash of energy as it’s broken and pulling it back into himself. No sense wasting magic, after all.

As tempting as it is to leave Lying there, a warning and an ornament of the court for the rest of the night, he’s not over-eager to make any more enemies than he has to. Although it may be too late for that, depending how easily Lying takes offence. The witch is somewhat hard to read in that respect.

“Lying may have done you a favour, you know,” says Kirin quietly, neutrally, once he’s settled into the throne. “They may even have intended for it to help you. That was rather… uncharacteristic behaviour, coming from them. They dislike open confrontation. But they gave you an opportunity to prove yourself - and you rose to the challenge.” He smiles a little, drums fingers on the curving branch that makes up one arm of the chair.

Exhaling a little shakily, careful to keep his face composed for any fae looking their way, Will smoothes a hand over his cloak to try and ease his nerves. The soft velvet beneath his fingertips is comforting, doubly so knowing it was a gift from Kirin. “They’ll have to forgive me for not thanking them,”says Will, dryly, covering how shaken he is with sharp sarcasm and disapproval.

He seems to do a good enough job of it, judging by the low laugh his words draw from Kirin. “I doubt they’re expecting it,” he says, quietly, touching fingers to the small of Will’s back in a quiet gesture of support. He can feel the fine tremors running down Will’s spine from the shock of the conflict, the adrenaline, and he pets Will’s hip by way of comfort. “Calm yourself. You handled it well. I suspect many court members will be rather more wary of you after this.”

The praise is enough to flush Will’s cheeks a little, the corner of his lips twitching a little as he grounds himself in Kirin’s touch, warm even through the cloak and his shirt.

“What now?” asks Will, once he’s got himself under control again, shifting a little anxiously at Kirin’s side. His confrontation with Lying has hardly made him more comfortable with being at the court, even if the fae gathered here now seem rather more respectful. “What happens now?”

His memories of both the summer solstices he’s attended are hazy, a whirl of alcohol and dancing and Kirin’s hands too hot against his bare skin – and besides, the winter solstice is a different kind of celebration altogether.

Kirin hums, eyeing the crowd, distracted. “We wait,” he says, quietly. “There will be feasting, later-” His eyes flick sideways to Will’s face, linger on Will’s lips, and the implication and weight of his gaze is enough to make Will shiver. “-and plenty to drink, but for now, people are… mingling. Some may approach the throne with petitions or questions. The winter solstice is-”

“-a time for family and harmony,” finishes Will, well familiar with the phrase. The same is true for humans as well as fae. It makes sense that the solstice should be used for settling disputes and airing grievances.

First to approach the throne are two non-fae, much to Will’s surprise. One of them is human, with only the slightest hint of magic about him – likely tied to some kind of craft, if the scarred leather apron he wears is any indication.

The other… Will isn’t sure about the other. They’re not human, that much he’s sure of, between their yellow cat-pupiled eyes, the feathers at their wrists and the sides of their face, the almost red tint to their dark brown skin when the light catches it the right way. There’s strong magic lurking in them, old, like Kirin’s, but also not. Whereas Kirin’s is soil and trees and the taste of honey-lemon on the back of his tongue, this magic is heat and pressure and a slow, inevitable, rolling destruction.

Like Kirin, too, there’s a sense that the person is too big for the body they wear, spilling out at the edges.

“Brute and Fyre,” acknowledges Kirin, dipping his head as they pause a respectful distance from the throne and kneel. The fact that Kirin knows them eases some of Will’s discomfort at the alien magic – Kirin wouldn’t be so calm if they were a threat – but he still carefully, subtly gathers power around himself, just enough to dispel a surprise attack should it come. “How lovely to see you again.”

“Lord Kirin,” says Brute, raising his head to look Kirin in the eye. “We bring tribute.”

“You still bring tribute, after all this time?” says Kirin, somewhere between delighted and a little amused, a genuine smile on his face. Will lets a little of the heat and light he’d called to his fists dissipate, feeds it to the blue goldstone in the hollow of his throat so he can call on it later and feels it warm against his skin. “You paid your debt years ago, friend.”

Fyre shifts a little at Brute’s side, and Wil catches the flicker-hiss of a tail tipped with golden feathers shifting across the ground behind them. “It’s gratitude, not debt!” they say, and their voice is at odds to the power Will can see spilling out of them, softer and higher pitched than he would have expected. “You saved my life.”

They quiet when Brute nudges an elbow into their ribs, casting them a glance from under the red-lensed goggles perched on his forehead. Evidently only one of them has the sense not to speak freely in the Sidhe Court, even during the winter solstice.

“I’m hardly complaining,” says Kirin, laughs quietly, and the moment of tension is gone. The sound’s deep and rich enough it echoes in the ice-enclosed court, even over the hubbub of gathered fae. “I’m rather honoured, in fact.” He waves a hand, as much for Will’s benefit as theirs – a message for him to stand down, despite the fact he already has – and beckons them closer.

Brute crosses the distance to the throne slowly, Fyre pausing for a second before bounding after him, the feathers on the sides of their head and at their wrists flaring as they did so. The movement sends burnished gold light flickering across the floor and ice ceiling for the barest of seconds, a mesmerizing addition to Will’s aurora. “Our gift,” says Brute, offering Kirin a worn leather pouch with a shallow bow.

Curling careful fingers around the pouch, Kirin waits until Brute’s backed away a few steps – tugging Fyre with him with they didn’t automatically follow – before opening it. The pouch itself is slightly larger than his fist, bulging, and Will catches a flash of glass and metal and light from inside before Kirin tips its contents into his palm.

It’s a glass sphere, the surface of it broken by curving metal strips, a beautiful piece of craftsmanship on its own. But it’s the plant plant in the centre of it that is the true gift – a thin stem and delicately half-furled petals almost obscured by the bright flame of its flower, a burning sphere trailing flames above it like a miniature sun. Will’s never seen anything like it before, and although he probes it suspiciously he finds no traces of magic about it, malicious or otherwise, other than the faint trace of _fire_ and something old and alien.

“What _is_ it?” Kirin runs a curious finger down the metal spines at seem fused into the glass, clasping the bauble like a set of giant claws. “Some sort of illusion? An enchantment or charm?”

“Glintweed,” says Brute, eagerly. “A flower that was set alight by dragon fire and never stopped burning.” An appropriate source of light, given Kirin’s reluctance to use any more technology than absolutely necessary – something Brute and Fyre must be aware of, too, given Fyre’s small, almost knowing smile.

“Fyreweed,” Fyre corrects him with a sniff and a pointed look. A look of exasperation flickers across Brute’s face as he glances sideways at them, but there’s love in there too, enough to make Wills heart ache a little just looking at it.

Kirin holds the globe in his hand for a moment, and then tips it upside down. The small platform the unnatural flower rests on moves, sliding along the metal rails built into the glass and twisting until it settles at the new bottom off the globe, the flower still upright. “ _Incredible_ ,” breathes Kirin, and Will knows he means it – for all Kirin has skill beyond imagining with regards to magic, he knows little of any crafts beyond farming and gardening, and even those are tinged with his own magic.

“As always, you astound me,” says Kirin, a rare note of fondness in his voice. “What a beautiful _gift_. Thank you.” The emphasis on _gift_ is slight, but audible, especially to Will who has spent the past year learning how much the fae can pack into the slightest changes in intonation and tone. It’s a subtle reminder that this is a present, that he doesn’t owe the anything for it, that Will suspects is more habit than anything else.

“You’re more than welcome,” says Fyre, sketching a low and elaborate bow, followed a half-second later by Brute’s shallower and stiffer one. They touch a hand to their chest as they rise, and the press of their claws against the fabric briefly outlines the shape of a pendant beneath their clothes. “You gave me a far greater gift.”

Their sideways glance at Brute as they speak does not go unnoticed by Will, and neither does the way Brute’s hand finds theirs, clasping their fingers together tightly.

For a long moment, Kirin simply looks at them, the glass orb containing the glintweed still clasped in one hand. Then he dips his head in a gesture of acknowledgement, a small smile on his lips. “Enjoy the solstice celebrations,” he says, a clear but gentle dismissal. “Stay as long as you wish.”

Fyre grins up at him for a second, and then grabs at Brute’s wrist and bounds off, dragging the man behind them. They’re swallowed by the crowds of fae in seconds, although Will still catches the occasional glimpse of golden feathers of red goggles amidst the swirl of colour and clothing if he looks for them in particular.

“Old friends,” murmurs Kirin, when they’re gone, leaning a little closer to Will and snaking a casual hand around his waist – as if anyone in the court has forgotten who, exactly, Will owes his life and loyalty to. “They bring tribute every solstice.”  
“ _Friends_?” Will raises an eyebrow at Kirin, surprised. “High praise indeed.”

Kirin hums. “Fyre is a dragon,” he says, and Will’s eyebrows rise high enough to nearly get lost in his hair. “They’re rare, nowadays. Brute petitioned me on their behalf for something that would allow them to hold human form. Almost human, anyways. His magic and Fyre’s were strong, in their own ways, but without the flexibility or form to do what they needed. I was able to help.”

Will thinks about the thin chain he’d seen around Fyre’s neck, heavily glamoured to hide it from anyone who wasn’t looking for it and leading down to something hidden under their shirt. “For a price,” he says, quietly.

“Everything’s for a price,” says Kirin, removing his arm from Will’s waist with a sigh. “You of all mortals should know that.” He catches Will’s hand in his own, raises it to his lips and kisses each of Will’s knuckles in turn until the faintly conflicted look on Will’s face fades into heavy-lidded eyes and a faint smile. “Not all prices are bad. You of all mortals should know _that_ , too.”

Humming thoughtfully, Will presses the pad of his thumb against the corner of Kirin’s mouth, and smiles a little when Kirin kisses that as well. There’s a tenderness to the gesture that he wouldn’t have thought the fae capable of before he’d met Kirin. “Yes,” he says quietly, brushing a thumb across the smile curving Kirin’s lips, the blue goldstone cog still warm against the hollow of his throat. “Yes. I suppose I do.”


End file.
